Curse of the Morellis
By Sonja Condit


"You have to tell him," said Aurelia Morelli, "he's twelve."

Angelo looked up from the newspaper. Crosswords were too easy; he never
bothered with them, but Saturday's Sudoku was a challenge. Where had that extra
eight in the second line come from? Why, why did he always work them in
pen? Wasn't life hard enough, without adding unnecessary difficulties? What did
a twelve-year-old need to be told, anyway - not to pick his nose in public?
The boy was just a baby.

"Angelo," said Aurelia, "take the boy out for gelato. And don't come back
till you've told him. It's your crazy family."

One of those eights had to be a six, but which one? Angelo rolled up the
newspaper. Saturday morning: the dishes lay unwashed, the maple syrup
stiffening on the French-toast crusts. Couldn't a man have even one day off?
"Marco," he called. No answer. He looked at Aurelia and shrugged.

Aurelia tchahed under her breath, left the kitchen, and came back dragging
Marco by his earbuds. "You," she said. "Go with your father."

"What'd I do?" Marco whined. "Where're we going?"

"Gelato," said Angelo.

"Do I have to -" Marco began, then shook his head. "Gelato? Now? Why?"

"It's your lucky day," said Angelo. "Go put on shoes."

"Awesome! These are shoes, Dad."

Angelo looked his son's blue plastic slippers. Shoes, were they? Why not?
"We'll walk down to Cambini's. Take those things off your ears."

Marco shoved his iPod in his pocket; Angelo tucked the newspaper under his
arm. The ailanthus trees bloomed along Commonwealth Avenue, filling Boston
with the smell of used condoms; Angelo glared at them, as if he could shame
them into modesty. People who planted trees should consider the whole nature
of the tree, not just its looks. "What up, Dad?" said Marco as they entered
Cambini's.

They were the first customers of the day, because who ate gelato at ten in
the morning? Crazy people, that's who. Aurelia called the Morellis crazy,
but she'd married one; who was crazier? The crazy man, or the woman who said
in sickness and in health, knowing what the sickness was? Angelo gave the boy
a ten. "Get me spumoni."

"Whatever," said Marco.

He brought spumoni for his father, chocolate for himself, and no change.
Since when did two small gelati cost ten dollars? Angelo pulled on his lower
lip, unfolded the newspaper. One of the eights was a six; both columns
already had a six. Where had he gone wrong? Would he have to undo the puzzle back
to the beginning? And when you finished the Sudoku, what could you do with
it? It wasn't even any good for predicting Lotto numbers; he knew, because
he'd tried.

"Dad," said Marco.

Angelo scribbled over the Sudoku and folded the newspaper. "You're twelve,"
he said. "You're old enough - the Morellis - a young man has to know
things."

"Seriously, Dad, I took Health and Human Development in sixth grade."

"There are things you don't learn in school."

"Not much." Marco licked chocolate off his lips and leaned back in his
chair, his body one straight diagonal line from crossed ankles to rumpled hair.
"You'd be surprised."

Angelo shook his head. Such a tough and worldly boy, all grown up in his
own mind - Angelo would be surprised, would he? Wait ten minutes, and see who
was surprised. "Your body will change," he said.

"Seriously, Dad, I know."

Angelo pressed on; Aurelia was right - she usually was. He unfolded the
newspaper and checked the moon chart on the back page. Three-quarters full,
waxing. He turned the newspaper and put his finger on the chart. "You'll learn
to know the signs, but for the next couple of years you'll need to check
this."

"The moon?"

"The moon, son, you'll watch the moon. There will be changes. For three
days and nights, when the moon is full, you'll have feelings, urges, desires -"
The boy had chosen chocolate gelato. Didn't he usually get pistachio?
Angelo frowned, trying to remember. Craving for chocolate, wasn't that a sign?
"Changes," Angelo said, trying to jumpstart his thoughts. What had his father
said to him? He couldn't remember.

"Seriously, Dad, I know. Hair, muscle growth, dreams, they told us
everything."

"Yes, you know everything. For three days, when the moon is full, why do
you think I get migraines every month, wise-mouth boy? Changes. Your hair will
grow - your fingernails also - you will have urges, desires - remember your
cousin Roberto?"

"He went to Palermo, like an exchange student," said Marco. But he was
sitting upright in his chair, now; he was paying attention. Was that fear on his
smooth young face? Good. He should know fear.

"He was sent home, to learn self-control. You must learn to understand
these changes, anticipate them, govern them. You must be the master of yourself,
even when the self has changed. You must plan your life around the moon,
and never travel during your season."

"Are you saying -"

Angelo pressed on. Since he had to say it, he'd say it all at once, and
never talk about it again. "You won't know yourself. Darkness will rise in you.
Hungers that you have never known. You'll stay at home, or terrible things
will happen. We'll keep you safe. Your mother will lock you in your room.
She won't let you out - she knows the truth. She's taken care of me all these
years. It's a curse. A gift. It's our nature."

"Dad." Marco was pale around the mouth now, blinking too fast. He picked up
the spoon and twisted it from hand to hand. "Dad. Are you saying that we,
that the Morellis, that we're - like - werewolves?"

Angelo shook his head. Maybe he'd go back to crosswords after all; he
wasn't clever enough for Sudoku. "No, son. Werewolves. We should be so lucky.
It's worse than that. Once a month, when the moon is full, we turn into . . . .
women."


- - -
Sonja Condit Coppenbarger is a writer, musician and teacher in Greenville,
South Carolina. She plays bassoon in the Hendersonville Symphony Orchestra,
and teaches at North Greenville University and the South Carolina Governor's
School for the Arts and Humanities.